Last Call
by Tales To Tell
Summary: Sherlock and John have been invited to one of Mycroft's government parties. Sherlock isn't interested. He thinks it's a trick to get them to investigate something dull. John goes alone for the food and the ladies, but the night soon turns sour.


**Last Call**

It was early evening. Sherlock was lying on the sofa in 221B, tossing and catching a footbag when his phone rang. He picked it up and prepared to swipe reject then saw it was John calling and answered. "No, John, I haven't changed my mind. Or my pyjamas for that matter. I'm not coming."

"Sherlock, will you answer your bloody phone?" John whispered like he was speaking in a place he shouldn't be.

"I just did."

"I mean for Mycroft. He's been trying to call you."

"I know."

"Then pick up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't want to talk to him. He'll just whine at me for not being there and try to blackmail me."

John huffed. Sherlock imagined him smiling and pretending to be annoyed.

"Listen. You two handle your family feud between yourselves. I don't want to be your mediator."

"Then don't. You didn't have to call me. Unless you _wanted_ to." Sherlock smirked. "Let me guess: you're bored. I told you you'd be bored. You'd rather be here with me doing fun things." He tossed the footbag and caught it again.

"Like it's any less boring with you sprawled on the sofa talking to yourself pretending you're talking to me."

"Of course I talk to you."

" _To_ me, _at_ me. Same thing, right?"

"Oh, don't deny it, John. You love hearing me talk. Hence this entire pointless conversation."

John badly masked his laughter with a cough. "I think you're projecting, mate. Anyway, the party's not that bad. A bit stuffy, but the food's great. Security's kind of tight for a snobfest though."

"Those types tend to suffer exaggerated opinions of their self-worth."

"You're telling me."

John made crunching sounds. Sherlock tried to figure out what he was eating.

"Alright. Gotta go. I'm getting dirty looks," John said. "Call your brother so he stops calling me to call you to pick up his calls."

Sherlock groaned. "Come home, John. I need stimulation. How long do you expect me to lie here playing with this sack?"

"Oh wait, there he is. Hang on."

"Don't put him on." Sherlock heard John trying to excuse his way through a crowd of people. "I'm hanging up."

"Never mind. He's gone again."

"Good." Sherlock started throwing the footbag again.

"Sherlock, I think something's up. He looked—"

POW!

Sherlock missed his catch. "What was that?"

John didn't answer.

Sherlock heard screaming in the background. Several more loud cracks rang out. He sat up, fully alert, and texted Lestrade to send officers. "John, are you alright?" he asked, his thumbs tapping like mad. For a nerve-wracking few seconds, he only heard the phone bumping and scraping against John's clothes and his own pulse banging in his ears overlaying the cacophony of people shouting and things going boom. "John say something, please."

"Someone just shot through the crowd."

"Just one shooter?"

"I don't know. Bit hard to see through this bloody pillar."

More shots rang out.

"Christ."

"Alright. I've texted Lestrade. Just stay calm."

"You stay calm. I'm a bloody soldier."

"John, you don't have your weapon."

"I know. You're not gonna tell me to be careful, are you?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Don't get shot."

"I'll try to dodge."

"John—"

Another volley ripped through the air.

John cried out, and Sherlock heard a crash like he'd hit the ground. "John!" His heart rammed against his sternum as he strained to discern John's voice through the gunshots and screams. He jumped off the couch and dashed for the door, then turned back for his wallet and headed out again, then halfway down the stairs went back again for his shoes.

"Oh, god," came John's distant voice.

Sherlock nearly fell over from relief. He lowered himself to the floor so that he wouldn't. "Are you hurt?" he asked, already texting Lestrade to hurry the hell up.

The line crackled with static. "I'm fine. Just got knocked over… Oh, Christ. She's dead."

Sherlock lost his grip on the panic. "John, get out of there now, please."

John didn't say anything for a moment. Sherlock listened to him breathing, hoping he'd listen, but knowing he wouldn't.

"You know I can't do that, mate."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes. Yes, I know. Be careful then."

"I'm gonna look."

Sherlock couldn't approve or deny, so he said nothing. He just listened to the whooshing and scraping on the other end, the sounds of his best friend rushing blind into danger because he was that combination of soldier and doctor that couldn't not risk his life for the slimmest chance to save another. It would be different if Sherlock were there with him and able to watch his back, but with nothing but gunshots and screams to clue him in to what was going on, he couldn't help but want him out.

"Six hurt. One dead," said John. He was breathing fast from running or adrenaline. "I don't see a shooter. Just people running. Bloody security's nowhere."

Sherlock switched off caring and turned on deducing. "Shooter used a decoy. Likely has an accomplice inside or several."

"Then what the hell was the point of this?"

"Terrorism. Assassination. Personal vendetta."

"I mean shooting through the crowd. Why not get sights on who they were after then shoot?"

"Because they couldn't."

"Right. None of these people look important enough for that kind of protection. Hang on."

John's voice became distant again. Sherlock heard him talking to someone about staying calm and applying pressure. It was moments like this that he loved him.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes. What's happening?"

"More people are hurt over here. I think this is where…. Jesus. Move aside!"

Sherlock's stomach sank as John went full work-mode.

"Get away! Are you bloody mad?!"

His eyes widened with panic. "What's going on, John?"

"Christ."

" _John!_ "

"Mycroft's shot. Head and stomach. Sherlock, I need my hands."

John dropped the phone.

The room tilted and Sherlock hit something solid. He shut his eyes against the spinning and curled up around his phone, straining his ears to construct a scene from the sounds of John and a bunch of strangers trying to pull his brother back from death. His mind kept replaying his phone buzzing in his hand with Mycroft's name on the screen and his thumb swiping reject. His stomach cramped and his mouth filled with spit. What had Mycroft wanted to say? If Sherlock had just picked up the phone would he be dying right now? He might never know.


End file.
